


I dance and drink and sing

by Io (thisismygenesis)



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Wyrmwood Deceit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismygenesis/pseuds/Io
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>An Exploration of Adelle White.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	I dance and drink and sing

> _**For I dance/And drink and sing,** _

Her hand is never empty of a glass, overflowing with whatever is pouring. Laughing a little too loudly, gesturing a little too wildly. Grabbing a little too often, a little too comfortably, touching just to keep her balance. She touches them, but they can't touch her.

Her eyes are never full of emotion. They are dulled and look drowsy. Acquaintances ask if she is well, but she only asks for another glass. They don’t hear the buzzing that drowns out her thoughts, that fogs them up and lets her sleep without dreams.

When she’s with someone, she blames the wine. It wasn’t always like this, but it is now. Wine makes things fuzzier, more blurry. Grayer, easier to forget.

She never remembers the beginnings - only the endings. Barely.

Waking up next to someone, never caring enough to see who it is. Focused on dulling the headache seething behind her eyes and ears. Scorching her throat. Only to be soothed by the bottles she keeps stocked in her vanity.

She never remembers the beginnings, but she hears about them afterwards. In eavesdropped whispers behind her back. The audacity of picking up a man the way she did - ! It's scandalous the way she goes on. 

But that's her own vanity stocked by the fuel of liquid courage.

Even Ramsey has noticed these goings-on. He is concerned, but only for what _his wife_ might hear.

> _**Till some blind hand/Shall brush my wing,** _

She was enticed when the stranger in the horrifying mask approached. Something new and exciting to change the dull buzzing all around her. She focused on him, and Ramsey’s jealousy radiated in waves. Her companion stormed off, but she paid no mind. If all went well, she had found who would replace him in her bed.

He asked about the party, the Boyles' guessing game, so she filled him in on her insider knowledge. Anything that would lead her into sharing athe bed withof someone new.

When he excused himself to refresh her glass, she finished off the one in her hand and set it on a nearby table. She waited for a bit before an acquaintance took up what was left of her dwindling attention. She almost immediately forgot about the stranger in the mask.

> _**If thought is life/And strength and breath,** _

She doesn't allow a lull in the conversation. She doesn’t slur when she speaks - a lady never slurs her words. Instead, she laughs and talks pleasantly, whether it is pleasant conversation or not. Her lips let things slip by, out in the ears of those around her before she knows what they are. And once they're out, she doesn't bother to care. When wine is involved, she doesn't have consequences, she doesn't remember responsibilities, she doesn't think about the next day.

She isn't allowed to speak her mind unless she can blame the wine, so she always blames the wine.

Ramsey returned, hovering over Miss White as if staking his claim. Tonight, as per usual, she would go home, and he would follow her. She will welcome yet another mindless distraction and wake to an empty bed. To another headache. Another rumor.

> _**And the want of thought is death,** _

Miss White flirts with danger, with death. She invites death to drink with her, to dine with her. With death, she shares a bed.

Another woman, one of her most gracious hostesses, won't even be able to sleep in her own bed. All she will feel will be the steel blade slicing between her ribs. The blood spilling onto her silk blouse and soaking through her gloves. The cold ground below her as she is gently left for dead.

When the news spreads to her ears, Miss White will grieve and mourn the loss of a most beloved Boyle sister as is proper. She will show a weeping presence, as she should. But inwardly, she wishes it had been her to fly away and leave this monotony behind her.

> **_Then am I/A happy fly,/If I live/Or if I die?_ **

**Author's Note:**

> For the full poem, please visit [this](http://www.portablepoetry.com/poems/william_blake/the_fly.html) website.


End file.
